Someday
by MidnightxBluexBlack
Summary: "Most of all, he was terrified of losing him again. He, the hero, had never been so afraid of something his entire life." It seems that no matter how many years pass, America's feelings for Britain never changed. But will he ever say those words? USUK
1. Alfred

_Summary: "Most of all, he was terrified of losing him again. He, the hero, had never been so afraid of something his entire life." It seems that no matter how many years pass, America's feelings for Britain never changed. But will he ever say those words? USUK_

So, my first foray into Hetalia fanficiton... Yes. Did everyone enjoy the amazing Halloween Event? I know I did.

I kind of love USUK from the bottom of my heart, and I started writing this because I was bored during one of my inorganic chemistry lectures... Erm, for once, I actually went back through and edited my writing. It's a good bit more fleshed out now than it was in my notebook.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia.

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><p>He didn't know when it happened. At what point did he start feeling these feelings? At what point had childhood infatuation grown into something so much more? So much changed so quickly, he hadn't known what to do. He had grown from a boy into a young man so, so quickly, everything happened so fast, he never got the chance to figure out his own thoughts and feelings. All of a sudden, his stubborn caregiver had transformed, almost before his eyes, and he began to see him, no longer as a father, as a brother; but as a man.<p>

That had scared him. He didn't know what to do, why he felt the way he did, but there was no one he could go to for advice, no one he could turn to for the sage words of wisdom that he so desperately needed. He didn't completely understand his feelings, but he knew exactly what he wanted.

He was afraid of being hated, of being abandoned, when all he wanted was to stand together, side-by-side, hand-in-hand, as equals.

So _he _did the abandoning first, before he could be hurt. He lashed out and pushed him away, destroying him with cruel words and uncaring eyes. He knew that it would be painful for the both of them, doing things this way, but he wanted it to be. He wanted it to hurt so much that those feelings would have to go away, so that he would stay away. He needed him to stay away.

Because being around him was too painful.

Because he loved him, so much it hurt.

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><p>Years passed swiftly, spent in isolation as he tried to define himself as a country, stretching his legs while avoiding the influence of others. He grew older. He had thought that his feelings would fade in time, but they were only intensified. He was sure of it when they were thrown together again during the Great War, and again, not even thirty years later, during WWII. And, of course, their encounters only grew more and more frequent after that.<p>

Whenever their eyes met across the table at the world meetings, or in the hallway as they passed each other, his heart would start to pound frantically in his chest, despite the fact that his gaze was almost always met with a glare, and the eye contact was quickly broken. He couldn't help but be filled with warmth whenever, annoying as it was, he started lecturing him about how sloppy he was, about how immature he was, about how he should learn a thing or two about responsibility. It meant that he was thinking about him, too.

But he still couldn't say the words. He couldn't tell him that he loved him. Through the decades, they had slowly mended their relationship, almost to the point where he could _almost _call them friends again. He cherished the times when he could make him laugh, the rare occasions when he could make him smile. He hadn't realized it before, but he had been craving this kind of intimacy, he thrived off of it. Just being by his side, like this, filled him with a happiness he hadn't truly felt in years, and even though he wanted more, he couldn't stand the thought of ruining all of that effort.

But it hurt.

His heart hurt. He couldn't stand being so close to him and not being able to touch him, to hold him in his arms, or run his fingers through that soft blonde hair. He longed to hold that slim body against his own, to never let go of him again, to call him his own, to tell him how much he loved him (oh, so much), to whisper it in his ear when he least expected it. He felt all of this so strongly, it was a wonder that his heart hadn't exploded. He had never known that he could love someone so, so much.

To the point where he couldn't move.

To the point where he couldn't breathe without the other by his side.

And that was why he wouldn't ever tell him. He wouldn't be able to survive the look of disgust and derision that he would almost definitely be met with. He wouldn't be able to survive being hated by him, to be despised by him.

But most of all, he was terrified of losing him again.

He, the hero, had never been so afraid of something his entire life.

And it was this fear that froze those words on his lips every time.

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><p>Alright! That was Chapter One. As you may have noticed, this fic is not currently marked as 'complete.' I have another chapter typed up (but I still need to edit it). I'll post it depending on the feedback I get. Would you prefer this as a stand-alone oneshot, or should I continue on to the second chapter? It could really go either way.<p>

In any case, thank you for reading! Please review, especially if you think I should continue writing this. I won't know what you're thinking unless you tell me, and I love anything you have to say, be it compliments or criticism. Let me know how I'm doing! =D

Later!

_MidnightxBluexBlack_


	2. Surprise

Due to popular demand (and all of those amazingly nice reviews, oh my gosh!), I have decided to go ahead and expand on this fic. =D I've planned out the story, and it's looking like there's going to be around 9 chapters, so I hope you'll be patient with me. I plan on trying to update once a week. Oh, and I can't make any guarantees about chapter length. I don't normally write chaptered fics, so I'm not sure how my pacing will be...

I'm happy with this chapter, in any case. I was listening to Alexander Rybak the entire time I was editing. He's kind of amazing. =P

This is America's ringtone: http:/ www. youtube . com /watch?v=lM7tSU2UFe0 without the spaces. =P

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia.

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><p>Even though it was barely waxing five o'clock, the sun was already sinking low in the sky, ushering the oncoming of night. This mattered little to America, who had spent his day on the couch, huddled under at least three different blankets while he played video games, having been trapped inside by the harsh, chill, snow-filled January winds. He was surrounded by empty hamburger and candy bar wrappers, which implied that he hadn't moved from his spot on the sofa in quite some time. Tony sat next to him, a second controller in his small gray hands as he, too, focused on the television screen.<p>

They were silent for a time, their vast concentration making the air between them tense; the only sound filling America's spacious living room being the music and sound effects from the fighting game they were currently playing, and the rapid clicking, signifying that some intense button mashing was going down between the two of them. In a matter of seconds, though, it was all over, with Tony jumping up onto the couch cushions, pumping his fist triumphantly in the air as America leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, pouting slightly, his controller still gripped loosely in his hand.

"Damn, Tony, that's the third one in a row! I just can't figure out how to do that one combo," he complained, looking vaguely put out. "I can't move my fingers fast enough…"

Tony plopped back down into his seat, done with his victory dance, and murmured something unintelligible. Despite this, America apparently understood him, because a look of understanding dawned on his face.

"Oooh, I get it!" he declared with a nod, holding his controller properly once again and looking down at his fingers, a look of concentration on his face. "You have to… pivot the thumb more…" He tried this a couple of times, trying to see how fast he could go now that he had learned this vital secret. "You up for another round?" he questioned, grinning determinedly at his alien friend. "I'm not going to lose this time, you can bet on that. The hero always wins in the end!"

Tony had just begun to nod enthusiastically when, suddenly, America's cell phone started ringing, and the sound of the old 1960's Captain America theme song began to emanate from somewhere around the sofa. The issue was, the young nation had no idea just _where_ that was.

He started rifling around in his blankets, wrappers falling onto the floor as he fumbled around and finally answered the phone just as the theme song was about to go into its second cycle. He flipped the mobile open and brought it to his ear, not bothering to see who it was on the other line.

"Hey, America speaking!" He greeted, his voice cheerful and, quite possibly, just a little bit too loud.

"Bloody hell, you git! There's no need to shout!" Came the voice on the other line, irritated and friendly as ever.

The American just laughed, shaking his head. "Hey, Britain, what's up? Isn't it a little late for you to be calling me?" He questioned, checking his watch. It might have been just a little past five o'clock in America, but it should have been nearly ten in London by now. "Shouldn't you be, like, heading to bed or something now?"

"What? No, no," Britain scoffed, and America could just imagine him rolling his eyes. "It's still early."

"In London?" America questioned incredulously, his confusion apparent.

"No, not in London," the older nation responded, obviously beginning to grow impatient. He sighed deeply. "Listen, I was in the country today for some diplomatic meetings, and my flight back home was cancelled because of the snow—"

America cut him off again. "Wait, in the country? You mean in America? Why didn't you say so? You should have come to visit!"

"Augh, listen to me! That's what I'm trying to tell you, you wanker! I was supposed to go back to London tonight, but my plane was cancelled because of the snow! So now, I'm stranded in this bloody country, and I don't want to pay for a hotel! I was…" He hesitated now, and Alfred could imagine him shifting uncomfortably—he did that every time he got embarrassed. "I was wondering… that is… I was wondering if I could stay with you, so I wouldn't have to go to a hotel."

"Oooh, so _that's _what you wanted! Why didn't you say so in the first place?" America questioned, laughing, as though that would have been the simplest solution in the world.

Apparently Arthur didn't seem to feel the same way, because he sputtered angrily for a second, and Alfred could just imagine his angry, red-faced expression, which made him chuckle softly to himself. He quickly stopped laughing, though, once Britain seemed to have composed himself enough to form coherent sentences once again.

"If you would have simply shut up for a minute, you would have known that that's what I was trying to ask this entire time!" he nearly shouted, cutting himself off and taking a deep breath before continuing, willing himself to calm down and not make a scene. Always a gentleman. "In any case, is that alright?"

"Oh, yeah, that's fine," America responded quickly, trying not to sound too excited about the idea of having Britain to himself for the evening. "Need me to pick you up?"

"No, no; there's no need for that. I haven't returned my rental yet. I'll just use that."

"Alrighty. In that case, I'll see you in a bit! Ahahahaha!" And with that, the American hung up his phone, tossing it back down into the folds of his blankets with gusto.

He shifted slightly, disentangling himself from the mound of blankets that surrounded him, and got to his feet, stretching slowly. "Alright, Tony, let's get this place picked up! If we don't, we'll never hear the end of it!"

Tony began muttering under his breath while America dashed across the room. He busied himself with picking up the hamburger and candy wrappers here and there, making sure the appropriate cushions were on all of the chairs (there was a chance they had been mixed up after he had made a vast pillow fort a couple of nights ago after watching Paranormal Activity 2 with Tony) and folding the spare blankets that he _wasn't _currently using to hide from his bitter foe, Winter.

Alfred couldn't believe his luck. He had grown accustomed to only getting to see Britain at the various meetings and other diplomatic activities that they were forced to attend together. Of course, these occasions were generally supposed to be relatively serious, and were no place for socializing. So, even though he got to talk to Arthur for a little while before and after these events, they hadn't met in a purely social setting in a long, long time. As far as the American was concerned, they were long overdue for something like this, and as a result, he was practically bubbling with excitement. Finally, to get to see Britain for more than a few minutes at a time, to get to study his expressions from up close, to have him in his own home, sleeping just a room away from him, made America unbelievably happy.

Of course, this also made it hard for him to focus on getting the rest of his house presentable for the irritable Briton, and, after what seemed like no time flat, the cheerful ringing of the doorbell sounded throughout the house.

America dashed to the front door, blanket thrown around his shoulders like a cape, and flung it open, smiling widely at the shivering man on his doorstep.

"Hey there!" he greeted, stepping aside so that Arthur could come in. "Get in here, or your eyebrows will freeze off or something!"

Britain seemed like he was about to make some sort of snappy comeback, but he thought better of it at the last second, settling for doing as America suggested and, lifting his suitcase with a quiet grunt, stepped over the threshold into the house.

As soon as he was inside, Alfred shut the door again, blocking out the cold with a shiver. "It's like, _way_ too cold out there," he stated, shaking his head. He blinked when he saw Arthur struggling to bring his hefty suitcase further into the entrance hall, and he dashed forward to help him. "Here, let me take that," he offered, reaching out to take the bag from the shorter nation, their fingertips brushing against each other.

All of a sudden, Britain jerked back, dropping the suitcase, which America hurriedly rushed to secure his grip on before it hit the ground.

"H-Hey! What was that all about?" America questioned, not sounding quite as annoyed as he had wanted too, his fingers tingling where, for a split second, his skin had come into contact with Britain's.

"N-Nothing!" Arthur stuttered, turning his back to Alfred and crossing his arms over his chest. Was he seeing things, or were Arthur's ears a little bit pink? "My hand just slipped," the Briton insisted, refusing to turn around. "Wh-where's the guest room?"

"S'this way," Alfred responded with a shrug, lifting the suitcase again and making his way down the hall. What the hell was that reaction just now? You'd think Britain was embarrassed or something, but _he _was the one who could barely stop the insane fluttering that had started in his chest.

Pushing these thoughts aside for now, America lead the way further into his house and up the stairs—all of the bedrooms were on the second floor. He stopped at the second door on the right.

"This is the guest room," he announced, pushing it open with his foot and stepping in. He stopped and set the suitcase down in the middle of the floor before turning to face Britain, who had, of course, followed him up. "My room's right next door, on the left," he added with a grin. "So I'll hear you if you snore."

"I-I bloody well do _not _snore!" the Briton declared, his face reddening. America only laughed in response, making his way back out of the room already.

"Well, anyway, make yourself at home and stuff!"

"Wait! Where are you going?" Arthur demanded, following the younger nation out of the room, stalking him as though his life depended on it. America thought it was amazingly cute.

"Chill out, man! I was just gonna play some more video games with Tony. I just figured out how to do this one combo move, and I wanna see if I can beat him now."

Britain blinked slowly, trying to comprehend the American's words as though he had been speaking a foreign language. Finally, he just shook his head with a huff. "In that case, do you mind if I borrow your kitchen? I haven't had anything to eat for dinner yet."

"Pssh. Do you think you can cook anything without exploding my house?" Alfred questioned, chuckling a bit to himself as the Briton bristled upon hearing his words. "More importantly, do you think that you can make anything edible? Last I checked, burned stuff isn't exactly _good_ for you…"

"I'll have you know, I—" America cut him off before he could say anything else.

"Go for it," he invited, rolling his eyes at the completely annoyed look on Britain's face. He couldn't help but think that the way those ridiculous eyebrows pulled so dangerously close together when the older country got angry was adorable.

Britain looked like he wanted to protest and remind America of what a complete and total git he was, but he seemed to think better of it. "Where's the kitchen?" he demanded instead, hands on his hips as he gazed up at the slightly taller American. When did that happen?

"This way," Alfred instructed, once again taking the lead as he lead Arthur through his house. Back down the stairs and a couple of rooms later, they were standing in the middle of his, surprisingly clean, kitchen.

Britain took a moment to silently appraise the room, and, somehow, it seemed as though there wasn't anything in particular for him to complain about.

"Food's in the fridge, and I'm pretty sure there's stuff in the freezer, too," America stated, gesturing around the room as he spoke. "These cabinets have all the canned stuff in them, and these ones have the pots and pans and stuff. There should be clean dishes in the dishwasher. Help yourself to anything."

"Thanks," Britain responded, stepping forward to start going through America's cabinets, hoping to ascertain exactly what things the younger country had that could be used to concoct a halfway decent meal.

"If you've got everything under control…" America trailed off, pushing his glasses back up his nose. Much as he would have liked to watch the older nation putter around the kitchen, he was sure that wasn't a good idea.

"Yes, yes; you can go back to your bloody video games now," Britain responded, shooing America away impatiently.

America couldn't help but laugh a little as he backed out of the room, leaving the Briton to his work. It wasn't even five minutes later, though, when that familiar voice came filtering into the living room.

"Do you have any eggs?"

"Behind the milk on the middle shelf," America called back, running his fingers through his hair as he prepared himself to face Tony for the fourth time, determined for a win.

"What about flour?"

"Top shelf of the pantry, in the back!"

Another few minutes passed in silence.

"Have you had dinner yet?"

America bit back the insult that he had been ready to throw out there, annoyance at all of the interruptions quickly replaced by surprise.

"Do what?" He questioned, hardly daring to believe what exactly the Brit was asking.

"I said: have you had dinner yet?" Arthur repeated, appearing in the living room doorway, an apron tied around his waist (he had found it hidden in one of America's cabinets).

"A-ah…" Alfred responded slowly, not daring to believe what this might mean. "No, I haven't eaten yet…"

Britain simply nodded, not bothering to respond, and went back into the kitchen. Only silence followed.

Did this mean that Britain was going to cook for him? America felt like pinching himself. No way! As much as he complained about it now, he remembered loving all of the times Britain would cook for him when he was younger. He might not have always acted like it, but he loved the Briton's food, even if it was sometimes rather tasteless. And, in any case… sharing a meal with Arthur, it all seemed too good to be true.

Less than half an hour later, though, Britain called America in to the dining room, and there, America found the table set for two (somehow, Tony wasn't included), a skillet of battered and fried fish sitting in the middle of the table next to a baking sheet full of French fries. As far as America could tell, it was improvised fish and chips.

"I had fish?" Was all the American could think to ask as he sat at his place at the table, across from the Briton who was already loading his plate up with food.

"Apparently," was his reply, not bothering to wait for the American before digging in. America loaded his plate as well, and for the first few minutes, they ate in a silence that was only punctuated by Alfred getting up and fishing the ketchup out of the refrigerator, covering both his fish and fries in the red condiment.

Britain scoffed, wrinkling his nose. "What you really need on that is some tartar sauce."

"I don't like tartar sauce," America responded, wrinkling his nose in kind. "That stuff's gross."

Britain didn't seem willing to justify this with a response, so he hurriedly returned to his food. Silence seemed as though it was going to engulf them once again before America decided to speak up.

"It's been a long time since we've eaten together like this," he blurted before he could stop himself. It was the only thing he could think of. That, and how much he'd been missing sharing meals like this. "It's nice…"

Britain blinked, obviously caught off guard by this surprisingly thoughtful statement. After a moment, though, his expression softened, and he nodded in agreement. "Really, it _has_ been a long time, hasn't it? Almost too long…"

America nodded as well, chomping into another piece of fish. "You used to cook for me like this all the time," he pointed out, speaking around his food. "Don't know how I didn't die."

"Don't talk with your mouth full! That's disgusting!" Britain corrected immediately, almost automatically. "And _you_ used to actually _like _my cooking! What happened to that?"

"I grew up," America responded simply, realizing a second too late that this was definitely, _definitely_ the wrong answer. Britain froze, his eyes wide, before leaning back in his seat and quietly taking a bite out of a French fry.

"Yes, I suppose you did…" he murmured, refusing to look up at America, staring stubbornly down at his plate.

Alfred bit his tongue and frowned, not sure of what to say. What _could_ he say? The look on Arthur's face, so pathetic that it looked as though the Briton was about to cry, plainly stated that there was nothing more he _could _say, for the moment. He had messed up. Already.

Somehow, America realized, holding back a sigh, this was going to turn out to be a _very_ long night.

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><p>So, there it is. I hope you enjoyed it. =D<p>

Please review and tell me how I'm doing. I'm kind of worried about whether or not Britain was in character, since I don't normally write him. Did I do okay? How was the rest of it? I'd appreciate the feedback.

Thanks for reading!

_MidnightxBluexBlack_


	3. To the Movies

Ack, thank you all so much for all of the wonderful reviews! They made me amazingly happy! You have no idea~ :D

Also, I am so so so so so so so SO sorry it took me so long to finally get back to working on this fic! I promised weekly updates, and obviously I didn't stick to that. ;A; I'm going to do my best to start updating regularly again, so please bear with me, and thank you SO much for your patience!

And so, with no furthur ado:

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia.

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><p>You could cut the tension with a knife. Or at least, that's what America would have said if he had been brave enough to try opening his mouth again. Unfortunately for him, the hurt look on Britain's face had melted and then hardened into one of determined indifference, and the American was so frustrated with himself for being such an idiot that he was tempted to begin slamming his head into the table until he found the reset button so he could start this evening all over again.<p>

As it was, there was no such thing as the reset button, and America was left to watch Britain helplessly as the older country examined each French fry before he ate it, eyebrows furrowed as he pointedly avoided the American's desperate gaze.

America tried clearing his throat a couple of times, obviously trying to get the Briton's attention, but he was ignored. He even tried chewing with his mouth open, hoping that the other nation would get frustrated and nag at him to stop eating like a cow, but to no avail. He noticed Britain's nose crinkle in disgust, but he refused to say anything else to him.

"Hey, Britain?" the younger nation finally tried, speaking tentatively, glancing between Britain and a fry he was absentmindedly playing with as he spoke. "Listen, I mean… You know I didn't mean anything by that just now, right? Seriously, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings or anything like that…"

For a moment, for a hopeful split second, it seemed as though Britain was going to come up with some kind of retort to this. He even went as far as glancing at the American and opening his mouth, but to no avail. He caught himself at the last second and determinedly returned his gaze to his now almost-empty plate, crossing his arms over his chest before he started eating again with a frown.

America sighed quietly, leaning back in his seat, slumping down disappointedly at his failed attempt at an apology. He pushed his French fries around on his plate unhappily, glancing up at the Briton every once in a while, as though looking to see if his chances had improved at all, but, of course, they hadn't.

After what seemed like hours of a cold silence from Britain's end of the room, the older nation rose from his chair without a word and walked over to the kitchen sink, rinsing his plate off before leaving it there, walking purposefully toward the door without glancing once at America. He paused at the door, hesitating for a moment before speaking.

"I'm tired, so I'm going to go to bed now. Good night."

America blinked slowly, watching almost in horror as Britain started to walk out of the room, and his brain went into overdrive. If he let the older nation just go to bed now, then they wouldn't say anything else to each other for the rest of the night, and then he would just leave first thing in the morning without giving the him a chance to make up with him. America jumped out of his seat, following Britain out into the hall. He couldn't let that happen!

"W-Wait, Britain!" He reached out, grabbing the other nation's arm to keep him from ignoring him and going upstairs. "Listen, there's this game that Tony got earlier this week, and it's totally awesome! You really need to try it!" He knew he was grasping in the dark. Seriously, asking _Britain_ of all people to play a video game with him? But it was the only thing he could think of, and he was desperate for anything that could have the slightest chance of salvaging his evening with the older country.

"America, I don't want to—"

"No! You _have _to try it. I won't take any objections!" The American stated, dragging the British gentleman into his living room without another word, completely bypassing the hall leading upstairs to the bedrooms. He sat the older nation down on the couch and shoved a controller into his hands before he could make any kind of an escape attempt.

"Now see here, America, I've already told you: I'm tired and I want to sleep. I don't want anything to do with these stupid games of yours!"

America frowned and shook his head. "Nuh-uh. You _have _to try this game. The entire world needs to play this game. It's that cool."

And with that, he sat himself down on the couch next to the Briton and started the game, ignoring any more of the Briton's objections. The loud title music made Britain cringe and glance uneasily at America, as though he were considering dropping the controller and making a run for it. America didn't give him a chance, however, as he quickly brought up the fight menu.

"Okay, so you use the control stick to pick your character, and then A—that's the green button-to select. Got it?"

Britian sighed and toggled through the characters, growing more and more disturbed at each one. There was a large, overly muscular man wielding some kind of wiggling axe thing; a woman whose bust was far too large for her hips (poor woman would have broken in half), and something that looked like it might have been human, a long, _long_ time ago. America informed him that it was a 'zombie.' Britain finally settled on the wiggly axe man, and America immediately dived into an explanation about how the game worked. From what it sounded like, all Britain was going to have to do was press all of the buttons on the controller as fast as humanly possible, and he'd be okay. Or something like that.

When the actual fight started, it didn't go well. Within the first ten seconds, Britain seemed unable to make his character move in any given direction, let alone the one in which he actually _wanted_ it to go. America, for his part, was being surprisingly sportsman-like about it. Britain had expected him to immediately start decimating him in an effort to prove his video game prowess, but instead, the younger nation was waiting patiently for him to make some kind of a move. When that didn't happen, America started dropping hints, reminding him to use the control stick to move.

Britain tried. He really did, to the point where he was red in the face, his eyebrows furrowed. Once he got the little person on the screen to move, he tried to make it punch America's little person, but no matter what he did, nothing seemed to work.

"N-No, I said punch him, you idiot! Punch him! Bloody—Why are you running that way? Go the other way you stupid—Blast! This is stupid!" Finally, fed up, the Briton threw his controller down with a huff, leaning back into the couch and crossing his arms over the chest, glaring at the game as the American next to him paused it with a chuckle.

"Okay, I knew you would suck, but _that _was hilarious," he stated, grinning at the British man sitting next to him.

"Well, I'm glad _you _enjoyed yourself, because that was a complete waste of my time! I'm never playing these stupid things again!" The Briton snapped back at him, though America could tell that even the grumpy nation next to him was slightly amused by the whole thing.

"Oh, come on! You know it was fun! You just don't want to admit it," the American responded, his grin widening, if that was even possible, considering it was taking up almost his entire face. The Briton seemed embarrassed, shifting slightly in his seat, and America, for his part, was ecstatic. Somehow, he had managed to shake Britain out of his funk, and they might still be able to enjoy the evening. He couldn't believe his luck.

"It was _not _fun," Britain insisted. "And would you look at this place?" He added, gesturing at some of the candy wrappers that America had not quite gotten around to picking up earlier that day. "Is that all you eat when no one's here to look after you? Candy and hamburgers? I swear, I will never understand how you haven't already keeled over, all of this junk you eat!"

America shrugged, glancing around the room as well, frowning slightly. "Well, you know. I just don't see the point in wasting time cooking when I've got other stuff I can be doing."

The older country sighed. "I know time is important to you, but your health is important, too, America. You need to take better care of yourself, and stop making people worry about you."

"Who's worrying about me?" the American questioned, blinking in surprise and tilting his head to the side as he glanced over at the Briton on the couch next to him that was now shifting uncomfortably, and pointedly looking everywhere but at the younger country, a slight pink spreading across his cheeks.

He coughed slightly, clearing his throat. "N-Never mind that! The point is, the things that you eat are absolutely ridiculous! You need a more balanced diet, and that's final!"

"Okay, okay," the American responded, laughing slightly as he waved his hands, giving up, for the moment. It wasn't like he was suddenly going to change his diet, anyway, and both of them knew it. "Anyway, since playing video games isn't working out, do you wanna put in a movie or something?" he questioned, not quite ready to let the Briton go to bed.

Britain made a face, apparently not particularly fond of that idea. "I don't know. I really _am _tired, and movies from your place are so loud…"

"I have quiet movies!" America interjected, jumping up off his couch and walking across the room to look at his impressive collection of movies. He quickly started listing off movies, until he was once again interrupted by the Briton on the couch.

"Listen, I don't know any of those movies, alright! If you're so determined to force me to watch one, just pick something and put it in! The sooner we finish it, the sooner you'll be satisfied, and I can go to bed!"

"Awesome!" The American continued to browse his videos for a few minutes, humming to himself as he searched for one that he thought the Briton wouldn't absolutely hate. Finally, he decided on one and popped it into the DVD player before returning eagerly back to the couch, plopping down next to the British gentleman sitting there.

"What did you put in?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow as the previews started to play across the screen.

"The Dark Knight," the American responded with a grin, leaning back into the couch as he remembered that past Halloween. Those costumes had been awesome!

"Th-That's _not _a quiet movie!" Britain shot back, eyes widening as a deep blush painted itself across his cheeks. Apparently he remembered those costumes as well.

"I know, but I couldn't think of a quiet one that I was actually in the mood to watch, so I put this one in, since you didn't care anyway," the younger nation responded, practically bouncing in his seat with excitement as the beginning of the movie began to play, leaving the grumbling nation beside him to lean back in his seat as well, crossing his arms over his chest.

Tony was bored. He had retreated from the living room when America and that limey British man had come in, preferring not to be around the two of them when they were together. The American got too gooey for him, and the other guy just made him crazy.

He had spent the past few hours up in America's room playing The Legend of Zelda on America's shiny new 3DS, determined to beat the game before his best friend managed it, but the alien could only focus on one game for so long. He wanted to go back downstairs and play more of that game from earlier. He hadn't proved to America that he was the ultimate champion yet, and that was high on his priorities list. This in mind, he decided to make his way downstairs to see if the limey jerk that had invaded their house was going to go to bed any time soon.

He padded his way down the stairs; feet making hardly any noise on the soft carpet under his feet as he made his way into the living room, where, he saw as he approached the couch from behind, the title screen for The Dark Knight was playing over and over on loop. He blinked, tilting his head to the side. That was strange, considering that the repetitive music normally made his American friend crazy after a couple of rounds, and he wondered why he hadn't just shut the television off already.

Making his way to the other side of the couch, though, the alien saw the reason, plain as day.

The two nations had fallen asleep; both of them stretched out, side by side on the couch, their legs tangled together, Britain nestled comfortably against the American, who had his arms wrapped carefully around the smaller nation, a content smile gracing his young features.

Tony watched them for a couple of moments, considering the nations before him before stepping forward and turning off the television without a word.

After all, he didn't _have _to play that video game tonight…

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><p>:D<p>

This chapter was _really _hard to write, so I hope you enjoyed it. Please review and tell me how I'm doing, your thoughts, any mistakes I made, etc. I love the feedback.

Thanks for reading!

_MidnightxBluexBlack_

_**To be continued...**  
><em>


	4. Confusion

Hi, guys. It's obviously been a while since I last updated. This fic has kind of been on an unofficial hiatus since December, and I'm bringing you this chapter kind of as a promise that I'm going to start working on it again.

So, first and foremost, to my return readers, I'd like to thank you for coming back, even after all this time. I've been dealing with a lot recently that has prevented me from writing, so thank you very much for bearing with me. I've already started writing the next chapter, so hopefully it will definitely be posted by next week. Thank you once again for being so patient.

Second, I worked hard on this chapter, and I think it went relatively well. Hopefully, you'll think so, too. Enjoy~

**Disclaimer: Axis Powers Hetalia is owned by Himaruya Hidekaz. I own nothing. **

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><p>He had the sensation of something delightfully warm in his arms. That was his first thought, anyway, once the sun had filtered in through the living room window, just enough to shine right through his eyelids and push him into the realm of consciousness: that whatever was in his arms was wonderful, and soft, and warm, and smelled like just the perfect mix of cologne and tea… Wait. What?<p>

With a quiet groan, the American forced himself to peek an eye open, just a crack as he blinked blearily in the face of the bright morning light that had decided to take the place of his alarm clock. Once his vision had adjusted enough to see the room around him, the first thing he noticed was the tuft of blonde hair poking itself right into his line of vision. That wasn't right… A few more seconds of observation found a much more awake America realizing, with a sudden explosion of emotion, that Britain—_the _United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland—was sleeping (was _sound _asleep, and oh-so-cute!) in his arms.

He wasn't sure what to feel first as he was bombarded with intense excitement, then panic, then wonder, then excitement again, until it all combined into this overwhelming flurry of feelings that decided to roost in his stomach, making it twist and turn upside down, fluttering like a flock of rabid butterflies had just decided to hold a riot in his gut.

Deciding that he had better calm down, or else risk waking up the precious… er, eternally grumpy British man in his arms, the American allowed himself a few deep breaths, once again taking in Britain's scent as he did so, unable to resist snuggling into him ever so slightly, a blush coloring his cheeks as he felt the smaller man shift in response to his movements, settling closer to him as he did so.

He shut his eyes, relatively comfortable at the moment as he tried to remember the events that had lead up to this situation in the first place. He recalled putting in the Dark Knight… It hadn't been too long into the movie that the Briton had started to nod off. It had started with just his head nodding slightly as he leaned against the arm of the couch. Then at some point, Britain must have gotten uncomfortable, because he gave up on the arm and settled for America's shoulder instead. Beyond that, the American could only guess that he had gotten tired, too, and repositioned them so that they could both sleep on the couch. That seemed reasonable.

That also returned the younger nation's thoughts to their current predicament. Much as he would absolutely love to just continue laying there with the British gentleman for the rest of the day, he knew at some point, the British nation would wake up, and all hell would break loose. How was he supposed to explain this?

The more he got to lie there, though, the less important Britain's eventual reaction seemed to him. After all, wasn't this what he had been craving? This contact with the older nation was what he had been seeking for decades now. He had always wondered what the shorter nation would feel like, wrapped up warm and tight in his arms, what their skin would feel like pressed together, what the Briton's breath would feel like against his flesh, coming in even, warm puffs of air that served as a constant reminder of their proximity. Sure, it would have been nice if Britain had purposefully curled up this close to him, but even so, just having him close like this was more than he could ever have hoped for. He wished that this moment could last forever.

For a moment, it seemed to America that a relationship between the two of them might have actually been something feasible. But then, as the younger nation allowed himself to imagine confessing to the Briton, he was faced with that look of absolute disgust and hate, the possibility of never being able to spend time with the older nation again, that made his blood run cold. Even now, when everything seemed so right, when it seemed like his dreams might actually be something that could become a reality, he couldn't bring himself to even consider confessing his feelings. There was no way the older nation would ever accept them. He needed Britain too much to ever risk losing him in such a way.

While the younger nation allowed himself to be distracted by his inner turmoil, he managed not to notice, at first, a slight squirming from the slim man in his arms. He blinked, upon hearing a quiet groan from the smaller man as he shifted once again, finally, begrudgingly cracking and eye open. America could tell by the lack of explosion that Britain was not yet aware of where he was. He yawned, looking around slowly. It was only when the blonde gentleman moved to stretch that he noticed the arms wrapped around his shoulders.

He blinked once.

Twice.

And then looked behind himself, green eyes widening as they found themselves mere centimeters away from America's clear blue ones. It was less than a second later that, as predicted, all hell broke loose.

America had just enough time to catch a glimpse of the deep red blush that blossomed thick over the British man's face before he had to dodge the elbow that came up to meet the side of his head as the smaller nation immediately began struggling, trying to extricate himself from his younger companion. For about ten seconds, they struggled with each other, attempting to untangle twisted limbs, couch cushions slipping to the ground before Britain soon followed, landing with a soft _thud _on the floor, breathing heavily, blush still highly evident as his face even as he immediately started shouting.

"What the bloody hell was that?" he demanded, rubbing his bum, but never taking his eyes off of the American who was still sitting, flustered on the couch. "What in God's name do you think you were doing?"

America blinked slowly, coming to the realization that somehow, this was his fault. Well… It was, to an extent, but Britain hardly needed to know that.

"How am I supposed to know?" he questioned, feeling his own cheeks grow slightly warm as his mind returned to the truth of the matter. "You're the one who fell asleep on me!"

"I-I very well did _not_!" the Briton insisted, his face coloring a little more, if that was even possible at this point.

"You _did_," the American insisted, nodding. "We put the movie in, and it wasn't even halfway over before you were snoring and drooling all over me."

"I do _not_ drool."

"Fine! But you totally fell asleep!"

"O-Oh. Well then…" America could see Britain's mind working furiously. The older nation couldn't just keep arguing that he hadn't fallen asleep on him. After all, he had said himself multiple times the night before that he was tired and didn't want to stay up for a movie. It was highly likely that he had fallen asleep… And besides, to keep arguing with the facts would just be silly, and as a gentleman, Britain avoided silly at all costs, unless it was a special occasion. "W-Well, then, I apologize, I suppose. It's not like I meant to fall asleep on you or anything. You're hardly a suitable pillow."

America chuckled a little, even as the British man shifted uncomfortably before getting to his feet, avoiding the American's eyes. This caught the American's attention. Was Britain... embarrassed? Why? Sure, the British nation always attempted to remain aloof and distant, so falling asleep and snuggling up against him like he had was definitely out of character for him. That was definitely it. For a split second, he had let himself think that maybe it was because Britain had been snuggled against _him_, but that couldn't be it. It was just because the shorter nation hated to let himself appear so vulnerable.

"It's no big deal," he murmured, trying not to appear as disappointed as he was currently feeling. "I mean, it was annoying, having to deal with your snoring and stuff, but it's not like it really bothered me or anything! Ahahahaha!"

"I-I do _not _snore, you git!" Britain exploded. His face, which had previously gone back to its usual color, was once again flooded with red as he turned away from the American, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Whatever," America responded, still chuckling as he climbed off of the couch. "Anyway, it's breakfast time. You want something to eat? I have waffles and cereal, but I don't think you'd like any of the cereal. It's all either fruity or chocolaty. Nothing for old men," he continued in that same joking tone, still compensating for his disappointment.

"A couple of waffles will be fine," Britain responded, clearing his throat into his fist with a small cough, obviously a little irritated, if the twitch of his overly thick eyebrows was supposed to be any kind of hint. "And I am not that old, you're just too silly to know the difference."

"Kay, waffles, comin' right up. You want regular, blueberry, or chocolate chip?" the American questioned, bustling into the kitchen after taking a moment to straighten his slightly wrinkled shirt, hoping to avoid another lecture about how he should start dressing more professionally or whatever.

"Regular, of course," Britain responded, rolling his eyes as he followed the younger nation into the kitchen. "Is there anything I can help with?" he questioned, keeping his distance from the younger nation, arms crossed behind his back as he watched the taller man dig in the freezer, searching for the waffles.

"Nah, I got it," the American responded, glancing over at him and earning another embarrassed look from the British country before he quickly looked away, avoiding the American's gaze, earning a slightly confused look from the younger nation "You want jelly or syrup or anything like that?

"If you have any strawberry jam, that would be lovely," Britain responded, looking pointedly at the refrigerator door instead of at the cheery American across the room from him. "Otherwise, just plain will do."

"Alright, lemme check," America answered with a smile after popping a couple of waffles into the toaster, letting the contraption do its job as he began searching the fridge.

It wasn't until almost his entire torso had disappeared inside the thing that he finally emerged, a triumphant grin planted on his face, half-empty jar of strawberry jelly in hand. "Found it!" he declared, just as Britain's waffles popped cheerfully out of the toaster. "Good timing, too!" he added, setting the jelly down on the table before grabbing the waffles and setting them out for the shorter nation to start eating.

"Thanks," Britain murmured, sliding into his seat as America turned back to the toaster to get his own breakfast of two chocolate chip waffles cooking.

"No problem," he answered, turning around to face the table, leaning his elbows back on the counter. "Want anything to drink? Milk? OJ?"

"Orange juice, please," the Briton responded with a nod, still avoiding America's gaze.

America frowned slightly, but did as he was asked, pulling the orange juice out of the fridge and pouring his guest a glass. When he received a 'thank you,' once again without a single glance from the shorter nation, he knew that something had to be wrong.

"Is everything okay?" he finally questioned, not wanting their visit to end on a bad note after he had done everything he could to salvage it last night. "You seem a little off this morning."

"Oh, n-no, not at all. I'm fine," Britain responded, eyes widening slightly as his face colored again for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. "I just have a lot on my mind. I'm going to be a day behind at work at this point, and I need to get to the airport before I miss my flight. You know. Always busy. Work to do."

"Ah… That's all that's bothering you?" America asked, raising an eyebrow, seeming unsure.

"Of course. What else would be bothering me?"

"I dunno… I thought you were still upset about last night or something," the younger nation admitted, glancing up to look Britain in the eyes only to find that the other was _still avoiding _him.

"As if I'd let something silly like that bother me for this long," Britain responded, maybe a little too quickly. "I already apologized for falling asleep on you like that, so why worry about it?"

"And you're not upset by that thing I said last night anymore?" the American pushed, though he was hesitant to bring it up. The last thing he wanted to do was remind Britain of that stupid slip of the tongue he had made and risk making him angry all over again, but to his surprise, the older nation seemed prepared to just brush that off, too.

"What? No, no, of course not. I'd say we're even. Everything's fine, obviously. Stop imagining things—it's annoying."

"If you say so…" America finally gave in, though he still sounded unsure of himself.

"I _do _say so, obviously," Britain responded, fading into silence after that so that he could concentrate on eating. America joined him at the table a few minutes later with his own breakfast, and even then, the quiet refused to be broken, settling instead into an awkward cloud that stubbornly floated over their heads.

America couldn't help but be frustrated at this point. Despite Britain's insistence that nothing was wrong, the older nation refused to look him in the eyes, and whenever he _did _make the mistake of looking up so that his green met America's blue, his cheeks would quickly stain a light pink, and he would spend the next five minutes staring down at his nearly empty plate, muttering to himself under his breath.

The second he was done eating, Britain got up from the table and shot toward the door, mumbling something about getting his suitcase from upstairs and brushing his teeth before he left. Once he was out of the room, America groaned out loud. This was turning into an exact repeat of the night before. Things were weird again, and Britain was just going to leave and catch his flight and he wouldn't have time to fix anything because he couldn't even figure out what was wrong in the first place.

He sighed deeply, leaning forward and letting his forehead collide with the table a couple of times before regaining his composure, getting up and tossing his plate into the sink. He started rinsing everything off and loading it into the dishwasher, attempting to think of a way to salvage the morning before Britain left. This time around, though, nothing came to mind. There just wasn't any time.

By the time he was done, Britain had made his way down the stairs with a series of thumps, dragging his heavy suitcase behind him. America met him in the hall and found him huffing and puffing, looking slightly ruffled after all of that.

"You want any help?" The American asked, earning a quick shake of the head from the smaller nation.

"No, I'm just fine. Get the door if you would, though."

"You're leaving already?"

"Have to," Britain responded with a not. "I just caught sight of the clock, and if I want to catch my flight, I need to get to the airport as soon as I can."

"Ah…" America moved forward, opening the door with a gust of cold air. The snow had let up significantly from the night before. Britain's flight would probably have no issues today, he realized, forcing himself to hold back a sigh.

"In any case, thank you for letting me stay. It was very kind of you."

"Anytime, dude. You should come over more often," the American responded enthusiastically, hoping that Britain might actually take him up on the offer.

"Well, we'll see," Britain responded. "Anyway, thanks again. Goodbye, America."

"See you…"

And with that, the Briton proceeded to shoot out the door as if the devil were at his heels. Or at least, he ran away as fast as his heavy suitcase would allow him to.

America watched him, frown etched deeply onto his face, until the older nation had loaded his suitcase and driven his rental car out of sight before slowly shutting the door.

"What the hell was that all about…?" he questioned to himself, making his way to the family room and plopping down on the couch, holding his head in his hands. "What did I do wrong?"

That morning, he had been sure that things were going well. Heck, it had almost seemed as though it might not be so crazy for him to confess to Britain, but now, he was even more certain than ever that, should he ever actually voice his feelings, he would ruin his chances with the British nation permanently. He couldn't risk that. He wouldn't risk that.

At this point, America had no idea if things would ever really work out between the two of them. The only thing he was really sure of at the moment was that he missed that stubborn Brit already.

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><p>Thanks so much for reading. Please review; it helps me so, so much to know how I'm doing, and constructive criticism is always welcome.<p>

MidnightxBluexBlack


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